


with everything i have

by stammiviktor



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (kinda), Bottom Victor Nikiforov, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Post-Canon, Protective Katsuki Yuuri, Top Katsuki Yuuri, Viktor's past, mostly on the back half
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 00:49:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11863164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stammiviktor/pseuds/stammiviktor
Summary: "The Viktor Nikiforov on posters and international television was a man of diamond, brilliant and untouchable and unbreakable, but the Viktor looking up at him from their bed is a man of spun glass—a work of art, transparent, and terribly, perfectly delicate."—An unpleasant piece of Viktor's past finds them in Paris, and Yuuri is determined to do something about it.





	with everything i have

_November 2017_

Their last night in Paris, Viktor and Yuuri eat at what must be the French equivalent of an American diner. Yuuri had frequented a few in Detroit with Phichit, and though the French version is undeniably classier it still has the same casual, late night, deep-fried  _vibe_. Of course Viktor had made reservations at a Michelin three star restaurant, but 8:30pm had come and gone by the time they left the rink hosting the Trophée de France. An award ceremony and press conference later, they forged into the chilly Paris streets, dodging reporters and searching for the first food-selling institution they could find.

"I could eat dinner out of a vending machine at this point." A stomach growl punctuates Viktor's point nicely.

Yuuri huffs, dragging Viktor along. "It's Paris. I'm sure we can find something more deserving of a gold medalist."

"You mean to tell me that a bag of chips and a Kinder bar isn't a good substitute for katsudon?"

"I never thought I'd live to see the day where my coach encouraged me to eat candy for dinner."

They find the diner only minutes after leaving the rink. It's small and cozy and not quite Michelin rated, but the  _frites_  melt in Yuuri's mouth and Viktor swears the croque madame is the best he's ever tasted.

"But we had dinner at Le Chateaubriand last night! You had to make reservations months in advance!"

Viktor moans into his sandwich. "I don't care. This is the best."

"You didn't even skate today, how are you this hungry?"

"Well, I didn't eat much this morning, and we both participated in some… strenuous activities late last night." Viktor's smile is suggestive, and Yuuri blushes. "It's a bit hot in here, Yuuri. Why don't you take off your scarf?"

Yuuri blushes more, if that's possible. "Why don't you take off yours?"

"Touché."

Yuuri swallows a fry and purses his lips. "I'm curious… did you encourage me to pick  _that_  costume for my free skate because you wanted it to cover up hickeys?"

Could Viktor smile any brighter? Probably not, Yuuri decides as his stomach does a little flip. "Not totally. I do think it suits your program. But I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a… factor." Yuuri fakes a scandalized look, and it has the desired effect. Viktor laughs. "What? We can't have you performing for the whole world with that on display every time. I think the ISU would fine us. Something about keeping it a  _family friendly_  sport."

" _Or_  you could perhaps have a bit of self control the night before."

"I didn't see you trying to stop me, Yuuri," he purrs. "And I doubt you'll try to stop me tonight." His name twists and turns on Viktor's tongue and Yuuri loves it.  _Still,_  over a year later, he loves it. At Viktor's expectant look, he passes the fries.

The only unfortunate part of enjoying a meal in such a casual institution so near the rink is the spectators who have had the exact same idea. The fans are mostly polite but some are more forward than others, and Viktor thanks them for their support in musical, accented French and takes selfie after selfie. In all honesty, Yuuri doesn't mind. He gets his own requests for pictures and autographs (he was the night's gold medalist, after all), and nothing seems to make Viktor happier than the fan that walks up, ignores Viktor entirely, and goes straight to Yuuri, spilling out a story about inspiration and passion and shyly asking if Yuuri can sign his Trophée de France program, please. When the fan leaves, Yuuri looks shell-shocked and Viktor can only grin with pride.

With fans, Viktor is grace embodied. His smile is never quite genuine (no, those he seems to save for Yuuri and select others), but he charms and winks and encourages. It seems effortless, though Yuuri knows that's not quite the truth. It takes more energy than Viktor likes to let on. But that's better than Yuuri, at least, who no matter how hard he tries can only be stilted and awkward and  _never quite_  gets the hang of it.

Viktor swoops in often to encourage him, and Yuuri relaxes a bit. But he still sucks at this interactive aspect of his career, and he will be the first to admit it—which is why what happens next catches them both so far off guard.

Stomachs full, bill paid, and coats in hand, they head to the door, stopped only by a deep voice calling "Hey, Nikiforov!" behind them.

They turn, both expecting a fan. Instead, it's a man with broad shoulders and a scruffy beard, wearing a beanie and a form-fitting shirt and advancing rapidly. It's quickly obvious that he and Viktor know one another.

" _Ça fait longtemps,_ " the man comments in what Yuuri assumes is French.

But Viktor does not reply right away. He wraps his arm around Yuuri's waist and it sets alarm bells ringing in Yuuri's head. It's not the possessive or protective hold that Yuuri is used to in new situations like this. No, instead Viktor is holding onto Yuuri like an anchor.

"Alexandre," Viktor greets finally as the other man stops in front of them. His charming smile, his endearing tone and enthusiastic greetings, his flawless small talk—all absent. "Yes, it has been a while," he eventually manages, but it's shockingly hollow. The words are an afterthought, as if Viktor suddenly remembered that he was supposed to say something else and can't think of anything beyond echoing the man's own greeting back to him—in English, presumably for Yuuri's benefit.

Yuuri is thoroughly unconvinced, but if this Alexandre is as well, he doesn't show it. When it becomes obvious that Viktor isn't going to say anything else, Yuuri jumps in instinctively, as Viktor so often does when Yuuri's flustered by too many fans.

(But Viktor isn't flustered. He wearing an expression of stone and he just can't seem to move his lips.)

"I'm Yuuri." He sticks his hand out to shake because that's what Westerners do and, feeling possessive, adds: "Viktor's fiancé."

The man chuckles and shakes his hand. "Oh, I know who you are. I just came from watching the competition. Congratulations." His tone is sickly sweet and it's impossible to say if he's being genuine. "It's nice to meet Viktor's protégé. I'm Alexandre Renard."

Yuuri runs the familiar name over in his head, trying to place it. He does not know this man and his gut tells him he doesn't want to.

"We competed. Years ago," Viktor clarifies for Yuuri's benefit, finally finding his voice. His words are stilted. They sound like pulling teeth.

"Oh, right." It seems obvious now. He remembers sitting on the bench at Ice Castle with Yuuko-san, grins fixed on their faces, gazes fixed on the tiny television and yet another podium with Viktor on top. "You were the skater my Vitya beat for gold at his first senior Grand Prix Final."

 _My_ Vitya _._  That's a new one, Yuuri thinks; he must be feeling more possessive than he realized. He quite likes how it sounds, though, and it seems that Viktor does, too, if his hand finally relaxing on Yuuri's hip is any indication.

Something spoils in Alexandre's expression for just a moment, and  _oh yes_ , Yuuri hates him.

"By a couple of points only," he dismisses with a wave of his hand. "That's impressive that you remember that, though. Weren't you quite young?"

It feels like a dig, but Yuuri chooses to overlook it and nods. "I followed Viktor's career for many years before we met."

Alexandre barks a startling laugh. "I almost forgot. Viktor, if someone had told me all those years ago that you'd settle down and get married, I'd have thought they were insane. But then I hear that you're practically marrying the president of your own fan club…" He grins. "That's at least believable."

Yuuri really, really hates this man—and as Viktor's arm stiffens back up around Yuuri's waist, he has a feeling his fiancé does, too. And honestly, Yuuri can't even take a second to be insulted at being reduced to Viktor's fan because he's too busy holding back the desire to utterly  _lose it_  on this man who thinks he knows Viktor, because anyone who thinks Viktor a narcissist  _really doesn't know sh_ —

"And he's marrying the president of his."

Only now that Alexandre had insulted Yuuri is Viktor's voice laced with such defensive fire—fire that masks the strain in Viktor's voice, the way it wobbles on the last syllable like it might just break. Viktor throws the words up like shields, but Yuuri doesn't miss anything. Behind the fire, Viktor is unmistakably vulnerable.

Alexandre cocks his head, amusement playing on his lips. "Wow, you've got it bad." When Viktor makes no move to correct him, he continues. "You've really changed,  _mon chéri."_

"I grew up."

"That you did. You even cut your hair. I was so sad when I first saw."

For some reason, it's this comment that has Viktor's fingers digging bruises into the fleshy part of Yuuri's waist. Yuuri doesn't mind—he has plenty of marks there from his fiancé's fingertips already—but wonders if Viktor realizes.

"He used to be so lithe, too," Alexandre continues, addressing Yuuri now with his tone and expression playing at mournful. His eyes flit over to Viktor, looking him up and down and there's something in that gaze that Yuuri hates, hates,  _hates._

"The way he moved… God, so flexible."

And in that moment Yuuri understands, and feels sick. He wants to reach up and cover Viktor's ears because, no, he shouldn't have to listen to this, not when it's so obviously upsetting him, not when everything about this man's words and voice and gaze is predatorial. He wants to grab Viktor's arm and drag him out the door, but ultimately fight wins over flight.

Yuuri is shaking, he realizes when Viktor starts rubbing small, comforting circles on his hip—Viktor, who looks like a deer in headlights, like he wants to bolt, like he wants to say something back but can't for the life of him think what it could be. Yuuri has never seen him like this. Yuuri is shaking.

He channels it all into his next words.

"Well, you have to be flexible when you're the five time world champion, five time Grand Prix champion and Olympic gold medalist." The words drip with something sharp and bitter and unfamiliar, but it settles on his tongue and in his veins like courage and he continues in a faux-pensive voice. "I wonder if that's why he has so many golds. And so… few… silvers."

It's a pointed, passive aggressive insult if Yuuri's ever heard one. He hopes Alexandre appreciates the taste of his own medicine.

"Yuuri, I think we should get going," Viktor mutters, his breath tickling Yuuri's ear. Half an idea flashes in Yuuri's mind and he schools a smile.

"Yes, we should. We have a long night planned." He moves to put his coat on, but first unravels his scarf from his neck and hands it to Viktor. When Yuuri slides his arms into the coat sleeves, he makes sure Alexandre gets a full view of his throat and collarbone peppered so suggestively with evidence of Viktor's mouth, of Viktor's love, of Viktor's passion.

For just a moment, Yuuri leans in toward Alexandre. "And I can assure you," he whispers like a secret, "that my Vitya is just as flexible as ever."

The look on Alexandre's face—caught somewhere between shock and anger and something else unreadable—sends triumph coursing through Yuuri's veins. As Viktor winds the scarf back around the collar of Yuuri's coat, the engagement ring catches the light and Alexandre's sharp eyes. It only makes the moment better.

When Yuuri looks back to Viktor, there's a wry smile on his lips and blue flame in his eyes, no longer masking the gut-wrenching vulnerability but burning it, and burning bright.

"Goodbye, Alexandre," Viktor bids. "Enjoy your retirement." They don't wait for the other man to respond before walking out the restaurant door, Viktor's arm still slung casually around Yuuri's waist.

Cold air fills their lungs and it's exhilarating. Viktor is laughing relief and joy and something heavy lifts off Yuuri's chest.

"You're wonderful," Viktor announces, breathless. He pulls Yuuri closer and presses a kiss to his jaw, whispering, " _Wonderful."_

Yuuri grins and they keep walking.

Their hotel is a mile away and they could take the metro, but the night is beautiful and chilled and it's the City of Love, so they walk. They cross a bridge, the Seine glittering away beneath them, and walk along the left bank in silence that shouldn't be as comfortable as it is.

Somewhere a clock strikes eleven and the Eiffel Tower lights up in the distance. Yuuri sees it sparkling in Viktor's eyes.

"I owe you an explanation."

"You don't owe me anything," and it's the truth.

"Okay, then I want to give you one." The tower stops sparkling. Viktor moves his hand from Yuuri's waist to his hand, intertwining their fingers. The intimacy makes Yuuri's breath catch.  _(Still,_  even a year later, after everything…) "I've never told anyone about this before, though. I never had a reason to." Viktor's left hand fiddles with the ring on Yuuri's right, and Yuuri hears what his fiancé didn't say:

_I never had someone who'd care._

"I'm here," Yuuri assures him, and it means anything and everything all at the same time. Viktor squeezes his hand and, just like back at the restaurant, looks like he wants to say something but doesn't know where to begin.

Yuuri decides to help. "How old were you?" A harmless enough start, he thinks.

"Seventeen." The gravel crunches under their feet. "Right after my first Grand Prix Final in the senior division, the one you mentioned back there."

"I remember watching. You beat him."

"Handily, actually." He lets out a laugh that Yuuri thinks is genuine. "I don't know where this 'couple points' thing came from."

"Delusion of grandeur?"

"Definitely." Viktor runs the hand not holding Yuuri's through his silvery hair. Impossibly, it looks more beautiful in the silvery moonlight. "I was young. Eager to prove myself."

Just like that, they're not quite talking about skating anymore.

"He seems much older than you."

"He is," Viktor admits. "He retired after my second year in the senior division."

Doing some quick math, Yuuri estimates that Alexandre had been twenty-two or twenty-three, maybe even older. To Viktor's seventeen. Yuuri shivers.

A sneaking suspicion has been building in his throat since the diner, and he can't contain the whisper of a question. "Was he your first?"

"No," Viktor replies, and for a moment Yuuri is relieved until: "…not technically."

"Not technically?"

"I'd had sex before. A couple of times, when I was still in juniors." Viktor looks out at the Seine, and Yuuri wishes he would look back so Yuuri could see his eyes. "It was fine. Clumsy and awkward but… fine."

There's an implication in that statement that leaves Yuuri with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He wants to hear the rest, but he so desperately doesn't.

"When I got to the seniors and won gold, I felt… on top of the world. I went to the banquet, which I actually  _enjoyed_  if that tells you anything about who I was back then." He laughs, and this time Yuuri knows it's fake. "It was still new and exciting then. I liked the attention."

Yuuri feels the need to lighten the mood. "You've never  _hated_  attention, Viktor."

"True. But now I like… different sorts of attention. Definitely not the kind you get from strangers at a banquet." The soft smile he flashes Yuuri carries a message he doesn't need to translate to words. "But that is now. It was different then. I stayed the whole banquet then went to an after-party in someone's suite. An ice dancer, I think. There were a lot of people there. Alexandre was there. I had a bit to drink and… it went from there."

Viktor's words trickle down Yuuri's back like ice water and slowly fill him with cold, wet dread. It's so easy to imagine: Viktor, drinking himself silly like Yuuri had after his own first Grand Prix; Viktor, sloppy and young and vulnerable and beautiful. Someone with a wayward moral compass coming along and seeing an opportunity…

"Viktor… he didn't…" Yuuri almost chokes, and Viktor is quick to reassure him.

"No, no, it wasn't like that. I only had a few shots, he didn't…" Viktor swallows, composing himself. "It was what I wanted. Thought I wanted."

Yuuri relaxes, but only a little. "Okay."

"I don't remember who approached who, exactly. We ended up dancing together. He took me to the suite's bedroom." The gravel crunches beneath them, sirens wail a few streets over, and a man hollers down by the water, but Viktor is far away from all of it. "I was so eager. Still riding the high from the adrenaline and the champagne and the expensive vodka from the mini-bar."

Yuuri's squeezes Viktor's hand and Viktor squeezes back, but does not look at him.

"Before that night, I'd never been on the… receiving… end."

Yuuri's stomach drops. "Oh." The words  _not technically_  float back and swim around in his head as he processes.

"He didn't really ask. We didn't talk about it. I guess in hindsight, I was so much smaller than him, and younger. I still had my long hair and my body hadn't quite filled out yet. I was very…"

"Feminine?" Yuuri supplies, his throat closing around the word.

"Yes. Looking back, I should have assumed that was how it would go. And it was fine, really. I wanted to try new things."

From what Yuuri can see, Viktor's eyes don't look so distant anymore, but they're steeling against something and he still won't look at Yuuri. He's hiding. The vulnerability is back, and this time there's no fire to hide it.

Viktor attempts a nonchalant shrug.

"He didn't have lube."

And sirens wail, gravel crunches, a plane flies overhead, but Yuuri can't hear anything except those paper-thin words over and over again in his fiancé's voice. They come to him slowly, then hit all at once.

Yuuri might as well be there in the room watching, for the way his stomach twists in dread, the way his heart aches, the way his vision swims with the helplessness of it all. He watches it all unfold eleven years ago in a hotel room in his mind, and his Viktor is so,  _so_  small. Small and naïve and flushed with booze, hair sticking to the sweat on his forehead and falling all the way down his spine.

And a man, a dark blur with a beard and shoulders that are so,  _so wide_  and black eyes that appraise Viktor's adolescent body like he's something to eat.

Yuuri knows what's coming, but he's a decade too late to stop it.

"Viktor…"

"I should have known to stop it there." And oh, Viktor's glancing over at him now, and the regret and guilt swimming in his eyes is enough to bring greasy diner fries back up Yuuri's throat. "He swore it would be fine, though, as long as I got him… you know…" Viktor swallows. "Beforehand."

Wide, blue eyes search brown almost desperately, begging and looking for something before they quickly break away.

In that moment, it's so painfully obvious that Viktor fears Yuuri might blame him—because Viktor, for eleven years, must have believed he brought this on himself.

In the hotel room in Yuuri's mind, his Viktor is young and vulnerable and falling to his knees. Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut, squeezes Viktor's hand.

"He took a while to prepare me, at least. That wasn't pleasant at first, but… it got better." His voice is so small. "For a while it was even good. I was still a teenager, after all."

"Viktor…"

"But I wasn't ready. When the time came, I wasn't ready, couldn't have been…"

Yuuri's heart pounds away in his chest and he forces,  _forces_  that hotel room from his mind, refuses to watch any more for Viktor's sake as well as his own. Instead, he looks over at Viktor and focuses on the curve of his throat, his lips, his nose, his silver eyelashes. Viktor's eyes stare straight ahead, down the gravel pathway along the Seine. He won't look at Yuuri yet, but their fingers intertwine and Viktor is open to him in so many other ways.

"He was pretty impatient. Angry, even." His adam's apple bobs. "He gripped me by my hair."

Something halfway between a whimper and a snarl bubbles up Yuuri's throat and he can't contain it. " _Viktor…"_ His fiancé's reaction back in the diner when Alexandre mentioned his haircut suddenly makes horrible sense.

"Anyway, it was over quickly." Viktor's trying to reassure  _him_  now, which is definitely now how this should go. "I thought maybe that was what it was supposed to feel like. I never tried to stop it."

It will be a miracle if Yuuri makes it back to the hotel with dinner still in his stomach.

A thought occurs to him. "He won gold the year before, didn't he? In the Grand Prix Final?"

Viktor nods.

"You took his title." The pieces snap together. "In your first year in seniors, you took his title."

Another nod.

"Do you think…"

"I've always wondered if that had something to do with it, yes."

The diner is only a ten-minute walk behind them. Alexandre had just sat down when they left. He'd still be there, if Yuuri turned around right now and ran. Yuuri competed today but there's enough fury coursing through his veins to provide him the stamina and adrenaline he would need. He could lure the man out into the street, that would be easy, and use his fists to give Alexandre what he deserved for ever so much as  _looking_ at Vi—

"Yuuri." And now Viktor is his anchor, his name in Viktor's voice bringing him back and working like a sedative. "I was just an outlet. I don't think he consciously set out to hurt me."

 _But he did_ , Yuuri knows. _He hurt you he hurt youhehurtyou._

And Viktor's looking at him now: finally, truly, honestly looking at him. There's no anger in his eyes and only a few traces of guilt. But sadness—oh, is there sadness.

"Viktor, I'm so s—"

"Stop."

Yuuri's words stick in his throat, his steps falter as Viktor moves in front of him to block his way. They're facing each other now, both pairs of hands joined.

"You don't have to do that, Yuuri."

"He took advantage of you."

Viktor suddenly looks exhausted. "It's true that he never should have done that, but I was a consenting adult, basically. It was just… unfortunate."

It was more than unfortunate, but Yuuri lets Viktor have this one.

"He's still a bastard."

"Yes. He's awful."

Yuuri looks away, twisting back toward where they came. "I still want to go back there and beat him up."

Viktor lets go of one of Yuuri's hands only for a moment, twisting around to press his body up against Yuuri's back and embrace him from behind. Their hands find one another again.

"You're so cute when you're protective," Viktor croons with his chin resting on Yuuri's shoulder, his breath hot on his ear. Yuuri can hear the smile, can  _hear_ that it's genuine. Together they look out over the Seine. "I'm sorry I froze up back there, but I'm not sorry that I got to witness that. Your dig about the silvers was…" Viktor shivers, "…top form."

Warm lips press kisses down Yuuri's jaw. They're Viktor's lips, Viktor's, and the tension melts from Yuuri's muscles like butter. It's hard to feel vengeful with his fiancé's mouth tracing delicately over his skin.

"All for you," Yuuri whispers, leaning into the touch. He winds his arm back to lace his fingers through Viktor's hair and bring him closer, closer…

Yuuri's eyelids flutter. He's barely breathing. The river glistens before them.

"I love you," Viktor whispers, his tongue tracing the shell of Yuuri's ear, hot and sweet and beautiful. " _Je t'aime. Je t'adore."_

A low moan escapes Yuuri's throat before he can stop it. "You should speak to me in French more often."

"Yeah?  _Tu l'aimerais?_ " The language is sultry and guttural and music on Viktor's tongue. He kisses down Yuuri's throat. "You'd like that?"

Yuuri's fingers tighten in Viktor's hair. " _God_  yes _."_

Just like that, it's perfect. Viktor's mouth moves down Yuuri's neck, tracing the dark spots where his teeth and lips had marked only the night before. It's a lovely kind of sore. Yuuri tilts his head further back, moans into Viktor's hair, and drinks in the knowledge that  _he is the_   _only one who gets to have Viktor like this—_ that Viktor will never again be treated so poorly because for the rest of their lives it will only be Yuuri who gets Viktor at his most vulnerable and he will worship this man's body like it's his mission. He will be so gentle that Viktor never again—

"Wait."

"Hmm?" Viktor moans against Yuuri's throat. Yuuri pulls him off his neck so he can turn around and face him.

"Viktor."

"What?" He's pouting. "What's wrong?"

"Was that your only time?"

"My only what?"

"Your only time. After that Grand Prix, was that your only time…?"

"On the receiving end?"

Yuuri nods.

Viktor meets his gaze solidly and answers, "Yes."

"Oh," and it feels like a tragedy.

"I mostly only had one night stands," Viktor explains, his thumb rubbing circles over the ring on Yuuri's finger. "I never quite felt like trying again. It was easier to just… fall back on what I knew. Besides, it's what people seemed to expect." He laughs, but it's hollow. "Viktor Nikiforov. On top on the podium, on top in bed."

Yuuri frowns. "Did you just come up with that?"

"Oh, no, it's something someone actually said to me once." Viktor shrugs. "I didn't care to correct them."

There's something in Viktor's eyes that Yuuri can't name but wants gone. He lifts Viktor's right hand and kisses his adorned ring finger, right there in the Parisian moonlight. His eyes never break from Viktor's and Yuuri sees the exact moment they fill with joy.

"I know better," Yuuri whispers against his fiancé's knuckles. "I see you."

Viktor looks like he might cry. " _Je te vois, aussi,_ " he echoes, and Yuuri doesn't speak French but he understands nonetheless.

"We should keep walking, if we ever want to get back to our room." Yuuri hates breaking the moment, because Viktor and the Seine and the city and the moonlight are  _perfect,_  but everything will be just a little more perfect when they're alone and warm together in their bed. Viktor seems to agree.

So they keep walking, hand in hand, both silent but undeniably  _there_. The water sparkles over the railing to their right and the city hums but that's all in the background—Yuuri focuses solely on how Viktor feels as his thumb skates figure eights along Yuuri's own.

Their hotel comes into view now, but Yuuri still has a few more things left to say.

"I've never been on the  _giving_  end, you know."

Yuuri can't quite read Viktor's expression. "Really?"

"You know I was pretty inexperienced before I met you."

A smile tugs at the corners of Viktor's mouth. He looks down to meet Yuuri's eyes.

"You must know that I see where you're going with this."

"Good," Yuuri huffs, "because I'm being pretty transparent."

"You're always transparent." Viktor's voice is more than just fond.

Yuuri stops them at the entrance of the hotel, just out of earshot of the valet. He clears his throat and studies Viktor's expression, one hand coming up to meet his fiancé's face without even thinking. The back of his fingers trace Viktor's cheekbone and he wonders if it's the cold causing that beautiful blush.

"Is that… is that something you would be willing to try?" Yuuri tries, refusing to so much as blink as he studies Viktor's face carefully for an honest reaction.

Viktor doesn't answer right away, simply leans into Yuuri's touch and Yuuri sees something unreadable burning in his eyes.

"I… I don't like the thought of that being your only experience. It can be so great, y-you've made it so great for me and I…" Yuuri swallows. His voice, his touch, his expression are all completely raw. "I want to give you that, Vitya."

Viktor's hand comes up where to Yuuri's rests on his cheek, pressing warmth there for a moment before he reaches out to Yuuri's face. They stand there, each a mirror image of the other. Viktor's hand is so warm and Yuuri flushes deeply as his fiancé's thumb caresses his cheekbone.

Mere seconds pass before they close the gap and unite their lips. A warm shock travels down Yuuri's spine at the contact, because though they kiss often they haven't touched like this since leaving the diner. And God, it's been over a year, but every time Viktor's lips find his it still feels like the first time.

"I trust you, Yuuri," Viktor breathes into him. "I trust you with everything."

Yuuri's mouth pulls into a smile against Viktor's. Both pairs of eyes flicker open and meet. "Is that a yes?"

"Of course." Viktor punctuates his answer with one more kiss. "Of course." Yuuri breathes into it and exhales with a sigh. There's a thank you tickling his throat—for the answer and the trust and the sheer vulnerability and openness—but he holds back. This is their relationship. This is what they are.

Yuuri is grateful for that, and he tells Viktor by lingering on the intimate moment, his forehead resting on Viktor's with their eyes locked. Then he wraps his arm around Viktor's waist and whisks his fiancé through the door, into the elevator, and up to their hotel room.

…

It doesn't happen that night, and Yuuri doesn't expect it to. For one, he's exhausted after his gold-medal winning performances today and yesterday, the kind of fatigue that settles in his bones and makes his limbs feel like concrete the second he catches sight of the bed.

For another, they are both emotionally wrung out after the evening they've had, Viktor especially. Yuuri is well aware that it takes a lot out of Viktor to bare himself as he has tonight.

And there's also the fact that neither of them particularly cares to pass such a meaningful milestone in an unfamiliar bed.

Still, despite the physical and mental fatigue, the emotional intimacy of the past hour has them both craving more. Their limbs are lazy, their kisses languid. They move in slow motion as they stumble through a shower and collapse, naked and still a bit damp, onto the bed—a jumble of limbs that never quite bother to untangle from one another.

They're unhurried and indulgent and  _themselves,_  both satisfied simply by each other's presence and lips and hands. They come together with breathless moans, Yuuri's head tucked into Viktor's throat, Viktor's mouth pressed to Yuuri's wet hair.

They shudder and lay there boneless, Viktor moving only to quickly clean them up. When he settles back down he begins humming an unfamiliar song and tracing a pattern on Yuuri's back. Yuuri can feel the vibrations in his chest, on his lips.

Yes, he thinks, this is perfect. He drifts peacefully into sleep.

…

It doesn't happen the next night either, because they're on a plane bound for the United States. Skate America is Viktor's final event, and he wins gold without question, landing a flawless quadruple flip with the most stupidly complicated entry figure skating has ever seen.

In the end, they both qualify for the Grand Prix Finals to be held in Japan a week and a half later. Before Nagoya, though, they fly home to St. Petersburg. Perhaps it would have been most logical to spend the intervening time in Hasetsu, but they choose Russia under the pretense of seeing Makkachin.

The unspoken truth is this: it's been months, and they both just want to be home.

They arrive back in St. Petersburg, but it doesn't happen that night, either. Exhausted from travel, they curl up in their own bed, on their own sheets, Makkachin lying solidly between them, and fall asleep almost instantly.

Here's the thing: barring a certain blood-alcohol content, Yuuri isn't very forward when it comes to sex. Viktor often takes the lead in the bedroom and they both like it that way. Yuuri really,  _really_  likes it that way.

But every now and then something will happen that fills Yuuri's veins with the desire and confidence to take exactly what he wants. It's unpredictable and elusive, but Yuuri knows Viktor loves it from how quickly his body reacts, how his eyes burn bright and glaze over. Viktor calls it Yuuri's true  _eros_ , and it's what finally gives Yuuri the confidence to follow through with the plans they made in Paris.

On their third day home, after falling on the ice no fewer than four times, Yuuri lands a quadruple flip in practice. Really, it shouldn't have been a remarkable achievement. Yuuri has been landing quad flips semi-reliably for almost a year now but that day he struggles to even get the rotations in. His eyes burn, his lungs convulse, his body screams at the abuse and exhaustion.

Until finally, after taking a minute to gather himself, he lands the flip seamlessly and hears Viktor gasp.

" _Yuuri."_

He sounds breathless and Yuuri looks around, dazed and elated but confused. Finally he finds Viktor, standing a few paces away, eyes wide and sparkling.

"Yuuri, that was the best quad flip I have ever seen."

"From me, you mean."

"No." Viktor skates toward him and reaches out to cup Yuuri's face. "From  _anyone._ "

"That's only because you haven't seen yourself do one. Skate America—"

"I've watched my own competition videos, Yuuri." He shakes his head, seemingly unable to stop smiling. "That was  _better._ "

And then Yuuri can't stop smiling either, and they end practice right then and there because it's getting late and there's something building between them that Yurio, on the other side of the rink practicing combination spins, really doesn't need to witness. They tug off their skates and tackle the three blocks home at an urgent pace.

Yuuri smashes Viktor against their apartment door the second it swings shut, hiking his fiancé's legs up around his hips and capturing Viktor's mouth as if he has no intention of ever letting go. His mouth trails down Viktor's throat, sucking kisses at every inch of pulsing flesh he can find.

" _Yuuri,_ " Viktor moans. "What have I done to deserve you like this?"

"Do you want me to make a list?" Desire has dropped Yuuri's voice an entire octave and the words rumble in his chest. Viktor shivers in his arms.

"You can do whatever you like, Yuuri."

On a normal night, being given so much control might make Yuuri's stomach twist with anxiety. But tonight is not a normal night. Instead, Yuuri's body pulses with enough confidence and possessiveness to be aroused by Viktor's words.

Somewhere in his mind, he's been planning this night since Paris.

"Bedroom," Yuuri grunts.

"Shower," Viktor corrects, and Yuuri agrees because there's a layer of dried sweat covering them both.

"Together," is his only condition.

Their lips only part for the short walk to the en suite, but it's far too long. Viktor turns on the water and Yuuri comes up behind him, kissing down his neck and unbuttoning both their pants at the same time.

"Impatient?"

"Only a little."

"I love it when you get like this."

Yuuri chuckles and lets his fingers ghost over Viktor through his underwear. He's half hard already and twitches at the contact. "Believe me, I know."

They waste little time in the shower, washing the grime of the ice rink off each other's skin in two minutes flat. They barely even take the time to dry off before they're back in the bedroom, certainly not bothering with clothes. Yuuri shoos Makkachin out into the hallway and locks the door.

"Worried Makkachin might learn how to use a door handle?"

Yuuri smirks, advancing to where Viktor stands at the side of their bed. "He's a smart dog, and you know how he hates being left out. I wouldn't want his… innocent eyes… accidentally seeing what's about to happen."

"True. We might scar him for life."

Yuuri is close enough for Viktor to touch, now, but he stays still, waiting for Yuuri to make the first move. And what a move it is—all at once, Yuuri grabs Viktor around the waist, hikes up his legs and flips them onto the mattress. A surprised laugh escapes Viktor's lips, which Yuuri suddenly can't wait to lean down and taste.

"I changed my mind, about what I said earlier," Viktor huffs. " _That_  was the best flip I've ever seen."

Yuuri groans at the joke. "Maybe it can be  _my_  signature move then, hmm?"

"It might have to be. Such a creative entry, such unconventional arm placement, such a high grade of execution… definitely plus three GOE."

Viktor's looking just a little too proud of himself for that, so Yuuri leans down to capture his fiancé's grinning mouth with his own. "Is this our relationship now?" he teases when they come up for air. "Talking dirty with bad skating puns?"

"I can talk dirty in other ways, if you like." And with that, he pulls back and purrs a string of gravelly Russian into Yuuri's ear, and though the words are unfamiliar the tone certainly isn't: Viktor is saying something  _filthy._  The words go straight to Yuuri's cock.

"That's not fair." They're both breathless now, and  _God_  Viktor tastes so good.

"No. What you're doing to me now,  _that's_  not fair."

"What am I doing to you?" Yuuri wants him to say it.

" _Everything._ "

And it's not what he expected, but it's good in so many other ways.

Yuuri wants to give Viktor everything—that is nothing new. But it's only since Paris that Yuuri has realized just how much  _more_  there is to give.

Because lying below him, pupils blown wide, silvery hair stuck to his forehead, lips parted ever so slightly is Viktor Nikiforov, the world champion who would look at Katsuki Yuuri's exhausted attempt at a quad flip and declare it the best in skating history; Viktor Nikiforov, who would massage the stress from Yuuri's shoulders and trace patterns on his back, humming until he fell asleep;  _Viktor Nikiforov,_  who would love Yuuri with everything he had and one day marry him, too.

Viktor Nikiforov: who gives and gives but, until recently, had been going through life with no one to give to him.

They've barely begun and he's already falling apart at Yuuri's touch, Yuuri's voice, Yuuri's presence. Looking down, Yuuri firmly intends to give him  _everything._

"Do you want to do this, Viktor?" Maybe it's not fair to ask him now, when the look in his eyes tells Yuuri he would agree to absolutely anything at Yuuri's hands, but he refuses to assume.

There's a flash of clarity in Viktor's dilated pupils that tells Yuuri he understands the true meaning of the question. "Yes. God, yes."

The eros character wavers. "Y-you're sure—?"

"Yuuri Katsuki," Viktor breathes, eyes wide, "shut up and  _fuck me."_

The noise that elicits from Yuuri has no name. Caught between a gasp and a moan and a snarl, it tears from his chest and he can't seem to inhale. His arms go weak, barely able to prop himself up. " _Viktor…_ "

"Was that too lewd, Yuuri?" Viktor twirls the name around on his tongue. "Perhaps I should have said 'make love'?"

Yuuri groans. "Too corny."

"We can find a word later, then. In the meantime…"

That's Yuuri's cue, the gunshot at the beginning of the race, and all thoughts begin to leave his mind to make room for how beautiful Viktor tastes as Yuuri works his mouth down the skin of his throat, how musical those moans sound to his ears. Viktor's pulse throbs beneath Yuuri's lips as he bites and kisses and sucks at unblemished skin.

Viktor arches his head backwards to give Yuuri better access, and  _God_  does Yuuri wish he could see Viktor's eyes as he soaks in every single touch.

Viktor twitches against Yuuri's hip, reminding him of his destination.

There's a trail forming where Yuuri's mouth has been—slick with saliva, pink and worked over, moving slowly southward. Viktor's fingers are laced through Yuuri's hair, silky and wet from the shower, but Viktor does not try to guide him. He lets Yuuri lead and holds on for support.

" _Ngh,"_  he chokes out when Yuuri's mouth slides down his hips to the inside of his thighs, closer and closer but not quite where he wants. "Yuuri…"

"Mmm?"

"Yuuri,  _please_ …"

"Already begging, Vitya?" Yuuri punctuates the teasing with a quick swipe of his tongue over the head of Viktor's cock.

" _Nnnngh…"_

And Yuuri's taken Viktor in his mouth more times than he can count, but somehow this time is leagues better than any other. Viktor is hot and hard and weeping and they fit so well together. When Yuuri works him with his tongue and Viktor keens, fingers tightening almost painfully in Yuuri's hair, he knows Viktor feels the same way.

"I'm…  _Yuuri, I'm…_ "

"Hold back, Viktor," Yuuri chokes out between pumps of his mouth. "We have so much more to do." Viktor's tip hits the back of Yuuri's throat and Yuuri purrs.

"I… _Ahhh_ …"

Eventually, Yuuri takes pity and pulls back, wiping saliva and something salty from his chin and looking up to meet Viktor's eyes, finding him nearly wrecked already. Yuuri feels a fine tremor course through his body the minute their eyes meet.

Yuuri climbs back up Viktor's body, nimble fingers roaming Viktor's chest for the spots his mouth already marked. He wants Viktor's mouth again so he takes it, licking in with his tongue and hoping Viktor can taste himself there. Then, ever a multitasker, Yuuri shoots his arm out to the bedside table, opens the top drawer, and fishes out a bottle of lube.

Viktor catches sight of it and shudders.

"You want this?" And this time, it's not that Yuuri doubts—he just wants to hear Viktor say it.

"Yes," Viktor pants hot against Yuuri's mouth, "I want you.  _Please._ "

Yuuri shivers. "Then roll over for me." Obediently, Viktor switches to his stomach, leaving his muscular back and perfectly shaped ass right in Yuuri's view. Every sculpted inch is perfect.

As Yuuri's hands travel down Viktor's sides to settle on his hips, Yuuri notices unmistakable tension gathering near his fiancé's shoulder blades. He reaches up to massage it out.

"Are you alright?"

"Mmm," Viktor answers into the pillow, "just different. Not used to this."

"Tell me if you want to switch back."

"Mhmm."

Yuuri has never done this to anyone before, but he's done it to himself and had it done to him more times than he can count. He squeezes some of the bottle's cold contents onto his fingers, starting slowly and deliberately and trying to remember what he has found feels the best.

As long as he lives, he will never forget the sound that tears through Viktor's body the first time Yuuri teases past his opening: unlike any moan he's ever heard. Viktor constricts around Yuuri's middle finger and he's so beautiful, so warm, holding Yuuri like that.

"Okay?"

Viktor groans. "Good," he croaks, "it's good."

Yuuri takes a lot longer than Viktor probably needs before bringing in a second finger. Viktor hasn't stopped moaning and there's a wet spot of drool on the pillowcase near his mouth. After a few minutes of that, Viktor finally gathers enough brainpower to form a few words.

" _Please, Yuuri,"_ he groans. "Ready. I'm ready."

"No, you're not. You still have a long way to go."

" _Yuuri…_ "

With that, Yuuri inserts a third finger, and Viktor's pleas cut off with a sob.

"So  _tight,_ Viktor…"

Later, Yuuri will admit that he got a bit carried away preparing Viktor. He spends what feels like an hour teasing him, stretching him, scissoring him back and forth. It's sloppy and lewd and to Viktor it must feel like an eternity.

The first time Yuuri curls his fingers inside him, Viktor nearly comes then and there. Yuuri's nails trail over just the right spot and all air leaves Viktor's lungs in a startled, keening  _whoosh._  Soon he's panting with the effort and Yuuri holds back, straightening his fingers and inserting a fourth.

Yes, Yuuri goes overboard. Between Viktor's thighs, the sheets are a mess of lube and he's crying out incoherently in need, long past the point of words. But Yuuri takes his time, because he knows the last person to have this privilege did not.

Eventually, he removes all four fingers and traces a teasing circle around Viktor's opening. The man below him spasms.

"Do you want me, Vitya?" Yuuri teases with his voice as much as his hands. "Do you want me to  _fuck you?"_

" _Yes,"_  Viktor manages to choke out. " _God,_  Yuuri. Please."

"I think I want to see your face. And I want you to see mine. Can I turn you over?"

" _Mmm."_

Together they flip Viktor back onto his back and tuck a pillow under his hips, and seeing his eyes again is like a cold glass of water. They're half-lidded, glazed over, barely any blue to be seen around the blown-out pupils. Viktor is looking up at Yuuri as if he's the only thing in the world that matters.

"You are so beautiful," Yuuri whispers, lowering himself to steal a kiss from his fiancé's lips, so swollen and pink and already parted just for him.

The realization hits Yuuri in the chest and steals his breath: this man is so, _so_  fragile.

The Viktor Nikiforov that Yuuri had grown up with on posters and international television was a man of diamond, brilliant and untouchable and unbreakable, but the Viktor looking up at him on their bed is a man of spun glass—a work of art, transparent, and terribly, perfectly delicate.

Looking down at Viktor, Yuuri can see everything, bare and raw and unprotected for him.  _Vulnerable_  for him.

" _Please, Yuuri…"_  Viktor is whispering, and Yuuri can't bear to keep his love waiting any longer. He hooks his arms under Viktor's knees, pulling them up and apart to expose his aching center. Realizing all at once just how hard he has become, Yuuri lines himself up between Viktor's legs and—

The look on Viktor's face when Yuuri first joins their bodies will live in his memory forever. His eyes, wide with want, fill with pleasure and shock and pure  _joy_  the second Yuuri makes contact, and Yuuri feels something similar building in his chest so rapidly he thinks it might burst. Nothing can compare to being inside Viktor, to Viktor holding him close like that, to feeling those last few inches of distance between them close forever. When Viktor has taken every bit of him, Yuuri lets out a breath he wasn't aware he had been holding. Beneath him, Viktor does the same. Yuuri leans down to press their foreheads together and the air leaves their lungs as choked moans. They don't dare to look away from each other for a second.

Yuuri is so warm, so comfortable inside Viktor like this, and he doesn't think he can ever move.

"Viktor..." Yuuri tries to say. It comes out strangled and Viktor's shaky hand reaches up to the side of Yuuri's neck, running his thumb over Yuuri's jaw, Yuuri's lips.

"I love you."

They're the first coherent words Viktor has spoken in some time, and they steal every bit of coherence from Yuuri. He darts his tongue out to capture Viktor's finger and holds him there between his lips. He can only imagine how lewd he looks, drooling around Viktor's fingers with his face flushed, hair a mess, moaning…

"Move for me, Yuuri.  _Please._ "

Viktor's request hits him squarely in the chest and fills him with warmth. Though Viktor may be begging and Yuuri has been the one directing them thus far, the words drain any ounce of anxiety from his muscles. Even now, Viktor knows what Yuuri likes, what Yuuri  _needs,_  and he provides.

So Yuuri moves, pulling out, and when he slides back in it's like the first time all over again. It takes all of Yuuri's concentration to keep himself in check—how does Viktor hold out so long when he's inside Yuuri?

Yuuri is slowly but surely losing his mind.

At Viktor's urging he picks up the pace, reaching forward and taking Viktor's length hard in his hand and stroking, coaxing. They're covered in a sheen of sweat, filling the room with ungodly noises of flesh pounding flesh, moans and pants and  _begging,_  so much begging.

" _Yuuri,_  please,  _harder._ "

Viktor's pleas fall hot on Yuuri's lips and he doesn't hesitate.

Their temperature, their fervor, their tempo, their cries of pleasure—they all build and build and build to a single point. Neither of them can think anymore, losing themselves in each other's skin and forgetting where one body begins and the other ends, coaxing moans and gasps from each other's mouths and building, building  _building—_

For a moment, everything goes white. Yuuri erupts inside Viktor and Viktor clenches tightly around him, pulling out every ounce of their bliss. Around them, the room is quiet but their heads roar.

They come back to reality slowly. Yuuri collapses onto Viktor's chest and  _God,_ they've made a mess, but in this hazy, boneless aftermath he can't seem to care. Their chests heave as they try to catch their breath. With his ear to Viktor's breast Yuuri can hear his fiancé's heart racing, barely slowing with every passing second.

"Wow."

"Yeah," Yuuri agrees, breathless. " _Wow._ "

"I can't believe I've been missing out on that all this time."

"Neither can I."

They lie together and breathe, Viktor tracing a tiny pattern on Yuuri's back.

"You're so good for me," he hums. And that can be interpreted one of two ways, but Yuuri can't make up his mind as to which he prefers.

"I never want to move," he mutters.

"We have to clean up."

"That would require moving."

In the end, they settle for a wet washrag; everything else, they can deal with in the morning. Between the falls at practice and the night's activities, they will both be very sore come sunrise.

"Let's sleep in tomorrow," Viktor proposes once they're clean and settled back together. They lay on their sides, facing one another, foreheads pressed together with an intimacy that rivals every other touch that night.

"Okay." Yuuri's yawn makes Viktor yawn too. He's back to skating his fingers over his Yuuri's side, and it tickles lightly but Yuuri doesn't mind.

"Forget men's singles, we should switch to pair skate. We move so  _well_  together."

Yuuri gives a lazy smile. "Afraid to compete against me now that I've nailed the quad flip?"

"That's not the only thing you've nailed."

Viktor delivers the line in such a deadpan tone that Yuuri almost chokes, pulling backward to get a better look at Viktor's grinning face. "What has gotten into you?"

"You have."

Yuuri groans at the double entendre. "Viktor…"

"Oh, wait, I didn't mean that last one, I swear. That was an accident."

"Sure it was."

"I love you."

"I love you, too. Come here."

For a moment, they lay in silence, foreheads pressed back together again and soaking in each other's skin and warmth and the smell of sex that still lingers in the air. Then, unable to stand the distance, Viktor wraps his arm around Yuuri's side and pulls him as close as possible so that every inch of their skin is pressed together. They fit perfectly.

"Thank you." Viktor's voice is barely a whisper in Yuuri's ear, so loaded with meaning that it sends shivers down Yuuri's spine. "Thank you for showing me."

_Anything for you. Everything for you._

"Thank you for letting me."

Viktor hums a melody against Yuuri's neck, low and soft and delicate, and they drift into sleep intertwined.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! This is my first story for Yuri on Ice so please let me know what you think!!
> 
> (find me on tumblr at http://stammiviktor.tumblr.com)


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